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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29888754">The Raven and the Wolf</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlettica/pseuds/owlettica'>owlettica</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Ancient Scandinavia - Freeform, Assault, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Not Beta Read, Old Norse, Old Norse Culture and Customs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Rape, Rape Recovery, Secret Relationship, Sexual Assault, Sexual Violence, Shame, Stabbing, Vikings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:07:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,976</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29888754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlettica/pseuds/owlettica</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of Northmen from a small village embark on different paths to fulfill their destinies.</p><p>
  <strong> 卌 </strong>
</p><p>I’m in no way associated with Gotham or FOX. I’m just a sick fangirl writing what I would have loved to see on the show. Please don’t sue me. I haven’t any money.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jim Gordon/Victor Zsasz, Oswald Cobblepot/Victor Zsasz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Weapon Dancers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This alternate universe occurs in ancient Scandinavia during the Viking Age. It has a few fantasy elements based upon Old Norse language, beliefs, and customs. I worked hard to honor Norse culture and tradition by including it whenever possible.</p><p>Because my story contains many references to unfamiliar language and customs, I’ll introduce them in the story and define them/explain further in the endnotes. Unless I cite my sources, my definitions are largely how I synthesized my research.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prospective fighters of a Nordic village compete with one another, vying for recognition and the opportunity to join future raids.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Characters</strong><br/>
<strong>Gefn (Gertrud):</strong> “One who gives”, derived from the Old Norse verb <em>gefa,</em> “to give”.</p><p><strong>Harði (Harvey):</strong> Old Norse variant of <em>Harðr,</em> meaning “hard” or “strong”.</p><p><strong>Jarl (Jim):</strong> Old Norse name/term for a highborn, noble man or warrior, “earl”.</p><p><strong>Ǫssurr (Oswald):</strong> Old Norse variant form of <em>Andsvarr</em> (Proto-Norse), meaning “to answer, respond”, or “to be responsible”.</p><p><strong>Vígnir (Victor):</strong> Old Norse from <em>vígja,</em> meaning “to consecrate (in the heathen sense)” or <em>víg</em>: “to battle or fight”.</p><p>______</p><p>
  <strong>Nordic Terms and Translations for this chapter appear in the chapter endnotes.</strong>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>—: : :—</p><p>Just beyond the Norrland coast, the sun is high and the air crisp with ravens flying overhead. Further inland, beyond the rolling hills, are lofty aspens, firs and birch against a backdrop of distant, snow-capped mountains. The inky birds kraw out into the bright blue sky, swooping and diving wingtip to wingtip in an aerial love dance. Others fly maneuvers or perch aloft high perches, shouting like the villagers below who cheer their favorite warriors and weapon dancers.</p><p>Some dancers don animal masks or the pelts of boar, wolf, and bear. Others crown themselves with elaborate, horned headdresses. Despite the various guises, all brandish axes, swords, and spears in dangerous, stylized motions. Some call out their maneuvers while others choreograph their movement to the sounds of bone whistles, drums, and rattles—all dazzling their audience with feats of strength and grace. </p><p>The weapon dancers are just one of the Viking warrior cults like the Uller who, according to legend, took the throne after Óðinn was banished from the god realm, Asgard. The most respected warrior cult of this village are the Svínfylking, whose totem, or fylgja, is the boar. The earl always turns to them in times of raiding and war.</p><p>There are also úlfhéðnar, or "wolf coats". Once highly-respected warriors, the úlfhéðnar have fallen out of favor, like the volatile and unpredictable berserkir or “bear shirts”. Driven by their berserkergang, both groups plunge head-first into battle, seemingly impervious to pain and carrying little more than their weapons. While a necessary evil on the battlefield, they are often ostracized due to their unpredictable nature and savagery. </p><p>. . .</p><p>After the weapon dancers conclude their performance, the most promising warriors throw axes, unleash their arrows, and spar while the villagers and nobility appraise their strength and skill. </p><p>A hush falls over the audience when Jarl enters the field. The village women fawn over the golden-haired highborn, whispering about his winsome looks and how his eyes rival the blue of a cloudless sky. Many conspicuously arrange themselves, hoping to catch his gaze while his competitors go largely unnoticed.</p><p>Jarl fixes his sights upon his target and pulls his bow taut. After unleashing his arrow to hit his final mark, onlookers erupt into loud cheering. He smirks with satisfaction for his performance has been at its peak all day. He knows he needn’t gauge the reaction of the nobility based on the resounding applause. Thus far, his marksmanship has exceeded that of his competitors. However, before Jarl can walk away, another arrow lands a hair’s breadth from his last, virtually occupying the same spot. </p><p>Jarl blinks with bewilderment and turns to locate the archer. Several yards behind him stands a precocious young man, a couple of years his junior. When a hush falls over the onlookers, his curly-haired competitor quickly withdraws two more arrows from his quiver, briefly squints to aim, and unleashes them in rapid succession. Jarl turns back to find the two additional projectiles crowding out his target. When the spectators break out into thunderous applause, the dark-eyed usurper flashes him a wide, toothy grin.</p><p>Jarl can feel the heat on his face.</p><p>
  <em> Vígnir. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>: : :<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Later that night, the revelry is loud in the village hall. Rather than join his family among the village elders and elite, Jarl seats himself at a table with a number of warriors, some of whom include the Svínfylking. The boar warriors are fierce fighters, renowned for their art of disguise and escape, often blending into the landscape and disappearing into the night. Most wear boar talismans like teeth, bits of boar hide, or tusks.</p><p>Jarl, in his finely-embroidered blue tunic, sits in quiet amusement at the large, raucous men devouring food at the table. He sips his mead and gazes out in the hall, watching as Vígnir is approached by villager after villager. Men warmly pat his back or raise their horns in his honor, while the women approach Vígnir and ply him with more mead. Jarl watches them run their fingers through his dark curls or coquettishly eye him as they stroke his arms and chest. </p><p>Though Vígnir upstaged him earlier, a corner of Jarl’s mouth rises with a mixture of pride, affection, and a pang of relief. The past few years have been difficult for Vígnir, whose father died from a battle wound gone bad and his mother, who passed last winter from fever. It is good to see people lauding his successes, rather than extending their condolences.</p><p>Despite the low lighting and long shadows of the halls, the color is evident in Vígnir’s cheeks. The young man is clearly feeling his mead. Harði, the seasoned Svínfylking warrior seated alongside Jarl, lifts his horn and sloshes his mead. The large redhead gulps down several long swallows before roughly patting Jarl’s back and breaking into loud, raucous laughter. </p><p>“Jarl! Why the long face? You can have your pick of any woman in the village. The gods saw fit to bestow Vígnir with good fortune today! Do not begrudge the young welp!”</p><p>Jarl shakes his head and drinks from his horn, chuckling a reply. “I am not. Vígnir proved himself quite the warrior today.”</p><p>Harði elbows Jarl. “<em>Warrior?</em> He barely has any hair on his face—much less where it counts!” The larger man howls with self-congratulatory laughter. “I cannot argue with Vígnir’s marksmanship. He showed great promise today, but competing with other villagers does not make him a warrior. A warrior is made in battle.” Harði raises his horn to one of the women who refills it and nods toward Vígnir. “He’ll learn soon enough.”</p><p>Jarl nods and takes another drink. “He’s also grown faster and stronger. Did you see what he did to Sten?”</p><p>Both men look to Sten, one of the village’s toughest fighters. Sten laughs and guzzles his mead, seemingly unbothered by his recently-dislocated shoulder—even raising his horn in Vígnir’s honor with his uninjured arm. </p><p>Jarl elbows his large drinking companion. “If Vígnir keeps this up, he’ll soon be challenging some of our best warriors.”</p><p>Harði grunts with agreement. “The boy’s grown strong as a bear.” After a brief pause, his eyes grow mischievous. “How do we know Vígnir’s mother didn’t lay with a bear?!” </p><p>Harði crows with self-congratulatory laughter. Before long, his amusement trails off when his gaze drifts to a small man pulling down the hood of his cloak. It is Ǫssurr,  the son of Gefn, one of the most respected (and <em> feared </em>) völvur in their village. Though Ǫssurr hasn't the wealth or status of a highborn, he and his mother weave and assemble fine garments for themselves. The slight, raven-haired man limps along the periphery of the hall, more spectator than reveler. </p><p>Harði clears his sinuses and spits. “I wonder what animal Ǫssurr’s mother lay with.” </p><p>Jarl grits his teeth. Though Ǫssurr’s awkwardness and desire for acceptance fills Jarl with discomfiture, Jarl feels oddly protective of him. The highborn holds his breath for a beat before exhaling a long sigh. </p><p>“Why do you insist on speaking ill of him? People travel great distances to receive Gefn’s blessing and seek her clairvoyance. They say Ǫssurr is becoming a gifted healer.” </p><p>Harði scoffs, replying with indignance. “They say Ǫssurr practices seiðr! Like his mother! <em> Like a woman! </em> He probably even lays with men! Like a woman!” The large man spits again. “Ǫssurr is argr! Probably falling to his knees or bending over for any man desperate enough to stuff him with their cock!” </p><p>Harði shakes his head with disgust and slurps more mead, eyes drifting to Vígnir, who has been ogling women all night. He watches the curly-haired man slip out of the hall with his arms wrapped around two of them, his grin wide and toothy. Harði wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and points his horn toward the young fighter.</p><p>“No one can say that about Vígnir!”</p><p>Jarl’s eyes drift to follow Harði’s gaze. In the distance, Ǫssurr sits quietly in a corner watching Vígnir steal away with Bera and Sef. Jarl considers his mead for a moment before taking a long swallow.</p><p> </p><p>:—V—:</p><p>Vígnir returns back to his home along the outskirts of the village, smelling of mead and sex. His spirits are still high, having outperformed almost everyone earlier in the day, even rivaling the highly-favored Jarl. His mind replays the day’s successes and the evening’s spoils, remembering the weight of Bera’s breasts and Sef’s delicious curves. He wistfully sighs, recalling their impatient hands, and hot, hungry mouths.</p><p>Before stepping inside his home, Vígnir makes his way out to the gently sloped mound of earth just beyond it, beneath which lie his deceased mother and father, along with other ancestors. Atop the small mound is a large rock which serves as an offering table. Were Vígnir not the last of his line, he would be making offerings with other family members. He pours mead into the voids carved inside the rocks and sets out food from the night’s feast, offering them to his ancestors, the land spirits, and the álfar. </p><p>Vígnir seats himself and stretches back, resting on his elbows to gaze up at the scintillating stars of the vast, cloudless night. He takes a deep breath and exhales the crisp night air and the scent of decaying leaves, the wind whispering through gently swaying aspen and fir. Eventually, past the sounds of rustling leaves, he hears laughter. When he looks out, he recognizes Ossur’s familiar limp on the moonlit path and hears Gefn’s delighted laughter. </p><p>For as long as Vígnir can remember, his mother sought Gefn's wisdom and guidance, treating the völva not with fear like many others, but as if she were her own mother. Vígnir rises to his feet and shouts to the wizened woman he considers a grandmother and her son, his oldest friend.</p><p>“Amma Gefn! Ǫssurr!”</p><p>Gefn waves to Vígnir, chuckling with delight while she and Ǫssurr join him around back. The older woman raises her arms to hug the surprise winner of the day’s competition. </p><p>“Vígnir!” She warmly pats his chest. “Your parents would be so proud. You have grown big and strong like your father.” Her eyes drift to the offerings he left on the stone and she wistfully sighs at the mead he poured into the álvkvarnar.</p><p>Gefn tenderly strokes Vignir’s face. “And you honor the old ways, like your mother.” </p><p>The völva pulls her raven-haired son forward, warmly stroking his face with Vígnir’s. “You and Ǫssurr are fine men.” She nods towards the stone offering table. “You both honor the gods and the hidden ones. They bestow you both with great blessings because you honor them. Never forget them. They will never forget you.”</p><p>Gefn pats Vígnir’s chest before walking up to the mound to pay her respects. Though offerings to the dead are usually reserved for family, Gefn is a revered völva and she and Ǫssurr are the closest thing Vígnir has to family. While Gefn makes offerings and prayers, Vígnir playfully nudges Ǫssurr and leans in close, whispering.</p><p>“Where were you? I waited for you in the hall but did not see you.” Vígnir playfully chuckles, still feeling the residual warmth of his earlier libations. “I had to drink your mead.”</p><p>Ǫssurr bites back a shy grin. He suppresses the shudder in response to Vígnir’s hot breath in his ear, tinged with the fermented scent of mead. Ǫssurr’s long lashes flutter when he meets Vígnir’s warm gaze. </p><p>“Some of the women wanted to arrange visits with mother and I had to help some of the men who were injured today, like Sten.” Taking advantage of the opportunity to touch Vígnir, Ǫssurr playfully punches his arm. “No thanks to you!”</p><p>Vígnir’s eyes glint with pride. “You saw?”</p><p>Ǫssurr chews his lower lip and nods, helpless against the charm of that impish smile. “I <em> did. </em> You surprised everyone today.” He wrinkles his nose and conspiratorially whispers. “<em>Especially </em> Sten and Jarl.”</p><p>Ǫssurr’s belly flutters when Vígnir’s grin quickly spreads to the other side of his mouth. Vígnir’s bumps Ǫssurr, beaming with pride. “They say the earl was pleased with me today. Perhaps he will permit me to join the next raid.”</p><p>Ǫssurr’s eyes widen. He knew it was only a matter of time before Vígnir garnered the nobility's attention, having grown into a formidable fighter. However, most young men who raid are those without prospects. </p><p>“That is wonderful news, Vígnir, but unlike others, you needn’t raid to find wealth.” Ǫssurr points out Vignir’s home and the land upon which they stand. “You own all this and are the last of your name.”</p><p>“But I would sail the seas and walk the lands my father spoke of—perhaps even beyond the lands he once tread.”</p><p>Ǫssurr sadly watches Vígnir’s wistful gaze drift toward the shoreline, feeling a pang of worry. If Vígnir leaves, he (like so many others) may never return. Still, he does not want to be thought jealous or unsupportive. Ǫssurr reaches for Vígnir’s arm and takes a breath, working to appear less disappointed than he feels. </p><p>“Perhaps I can look after things if the earl selects you for the next raid.”</p><p>Vígnir turns to Ǫssurr, his eyes brightening. Though there are women in the village he trusts to look after his property, Ǫssurr is his oldest, most trusted friend. “You would <em> do </em>that?”</p><p>Ǫssurr’s brow softens, his lashes fluttering in response to Vígnir’s expectant gaze. “Of course.”</p><p>Ǫssurr quickly finds himself enveloped in a strong embrace. The smaller man closes his eyes and deeply inhales, past the smell of the mead and the women, Ǫssurr can smell <em> him.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Vígnir. </em>
</p><p>Ǫssurr melts in fleeting warmth of Vignir’s arms before strong hands grasp at his shoulders and abruptly pull him back. Vígnir’s brow subtly crinkles as he considers the pale green eyes, intently gazing back at him. “You are a <em> true </em> friend, Ǫssurr.”</p><p>Ǫssurr feels the sweet pang in his chest. “As true a friend as you.”</p><p>Both men turn with the sound of Gefn’s voice. Vígnir reaches for her when he notices her tired grimace as she descends the burial mound. </p><p>“Forgive me, Vígnir, but the hour grows late and I am growing no younger. We are very proud of you. Góð nátt.”</p><p>Vígnir draws Gefn close and presses a warm kiss on the top of her head. “Góð nátt, Amma.” He turns to Ǫssurr and warmly smiles, affectionately stroking his friend’s shoulder. Ǫssurr peers up into those large, kind eyes, deep and dark as the earth, struck by the emotion gently tugging at Vígnir’s face.</p><p>“Thank you, Ǫssurr. Góð nátt.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><strong>Sayings, terms and translations:</strong><br/>
<strong>Álfr (plural: álfar):</strong>  Norse term for elves. The álfar were often mentioned alongside the gods, though considered lesser spirits of nature like “land spirits”—sometimes referred to as “hidden ones”. The Norse believed elves (if they felt inclined) aided humans and gods. The álfar were powerful beings connected to mystery, magic, fertility, and healing. They believed elves demanded respect, having terrible tempers if offended. Norse lore also suggests the álfar occasionally interbred with humans. </p><p><strong>Álvkvarnar (plural):</strong> “elven mills”. Term given to void or “cup” markings carved into sacrificial stones at burial sites. The Norse regularly poured drink offerings into the voids for their deceased ancestors, land spirits, elves (álfar), or others who dwelled in the burial mounds.</p><p><strong>Amma:</strong> Grandmother.</p><p><strong>Argr:</strong> adjective meaning "unmanly" or “homosexual”.</p><p><strong>Ergi:</strong> noun meaning homosexuality or “unmanliness”. Though many known references to homosexuality among the Norse was documented by Christian scholars/historians, the Norse frowned upon homosexuality (prior to Christian influence) due to their cultural and social norms which did not condone “passivity”. The Old Norse believed it was better to assume the “dominant” role. (<em>Argr</em> is an associated adjective meaning "unmanly".)</p><p><strong>Berserkr (plural: berserkir):</strong> Norse term derived from “berr”, meaning “bear” or “bare” and “serkr”, meaning “shirt”, whose literal translation being “bare shirt” or “bear shirt”. The berserkir were savage warriors known for their battle frenzy, <em>berserkergang.</em> The berserkir were believed to fight “bare of shirt” or without protection of mail shirt. They were often solitary and unwelcome in larger society, due to their brutality and unpredictable nature.</p><p><strong>Fylgja (plural: fylgjur):</strong> Vikings considered the fylgja to be one of the parts of an individual’s “self”, usually perceived in the form of a familiar animal or spirit. The fylgja accompanies an individual and is tied to their fate. Fylgjur could also be the “spirits” or “totems” of a family group.</p><p><strong>Góð nátt:</strong> Good night.</p><p><strong>Seiðr:</strong> Norse ritual magic believed to shape or tell the future. Seiðr was predominantly practiced by women. While male seiðr practitioners existed, the Norse often looked down upon them because seiðr magic was considered “unmanly”. References to male practitioners often accompanied the term <em>“ergi”</em> (meaning unmanliness) or <em>“argr”</em> (meaning unmanly). </p><p><strong>Svínfylking:</strong> boar berserkers/warriors associated with Freya and her battle swine, Hildisvíni.</p><p><strong>Úlfhéðnar (singular: úlfhéðinn):</strong> “wolf coats” or berserkers/warriors whose animal totem (or fylgja) is the wolf. </p><p><strong>Völva (plural: völvur):</strong> witch or sorceress, often referred to as a practitioner of seiðr. Many often traveled with a ritual distaff for blessings or curses. The Norse used distaffs and spindles for spinning wool, flax, or hemp. Spinning played a large part in the völvur’s seiðr magic. Some völvur had elaborate metal distaffs that they also used as a walking staff.</p><p>______</p><p>
  <strong>Closing Comments</strong><br/>
</p><p>Most of my understanding about Viking culture comes from the YouTube videos of archaeologist, Arith Härger, whose the extensive knowledge and research proved an invaluable resource, along with Daniel McCoy's <em>Viking Spirit,</em> and Pete Jennings' <em>Viking Warrior Cults: Berserkers, Úlfhéðnar, Svínfylking &amp; Weapon Dancers.</em></p><p><strong>Warning: this story contains elements that are not for the faint of heart, including graphic sexual violence and rape. Yes, I will tag appropriately. Please do not read further if you are uncomfortable with this subject matter.</strong> I have no beta reader, so all mistakes are my own. </p><p>For anyone who made it this far, thank you. I know this story is a big departure from what I normally write, so your willingness to take this journey with me is all the more special. This tale is very much a work in progress. I plan to post more chapters as I write them, but they’ve been very slow in coming so I really appreciate your patience. </p><p>Okay, now that all that's out of the way, thank you for the read. For you return readers out there? Special thanks to you. Yeah, you! Y’all mean more to me than I can ever express.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Hidden Ones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After an indiscretion in the woods, Vígnir finds himself imperiled.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <strong>This chapter contains disturbing subject matter for some readers, including rape. Proceed with caution.</strong>
</p><p>______</p><p>
  <strong>Nordic Terms and Translations for this chapter appear in the chapter endnotes.</strong>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>—: : :—</p><p>The morning sun crests over the distant mountains before Jarl enters one of his favorite places for quiet contemplation. Within the thick woods, there is bountiful game and a lake which offers fishing. When he can, the highborn finds respite in this hidden place where he has no burdens. None of its inhabitants require anything of him or seek his favor. They do not scrutinize his every word or action, or ensure he behaves in a manner expected of his station. </p><p>Here, Jarl doesn’t have to live up to any familial or village expectations. He doesn’t have to excel at everything.</p><p>In these woods, Jarl is free. </p><p>As the highborn treks deeper into the woods, the only sounds are those of singing birds, crunching leaves, and snapping twigs beneath his feet. Without warning, Jarl sees sudden movement in his peripheral vision and soon buckles under the force of an unexpected tackle. He fails to regain his footing and quickly falls to the ground, struggling with his assailant. </p><p>After a brief tussle, Jarl gets his bearings and looks through the swaying mop of curly brown hair. He instantly recognizes the mischievously glinting dark eyes and unmistakable row of impishly bared teeth. </p><p>
  <em> Vígnir. </em>
</p><p>Vígnir, who has the highborn well-pinned, puckishly goads him between grunts. </p><p>“Something wrong, Jarl? By now, you normally have me on my back.”</p><p>The truth of Vígnir’s words bring heat to Jarl’s face. Until recently, Jarl has consistently bested Vígnir in wrestling, archery, and virtually every manner of competition. However, since Vígnir’s recent bout of successes, he has become practically unbeatable. </p><p>Jarl answers with a grunt and engages his legs to displace Vígnir, but the larger man quickly maneuvers himself between them, hooking their ankles. The blonde struggles with all his might, but fails to gather enough force or momentum to escape the vise of Vígnir’s legs. </p><p>Jarl growls and makes another futile attempt to free himself. His eyes drift to the color rising in Vígnir’s cheeks and the hot breaths puffing from the beautifully parted lips of that infuriatingly tart mouth. In little time, their tussling devolves into a tangle of crashing lips and impatient fingers.</p><p>Jarl slams his eyes shut and plunges into the hot clutch of Vígnir’s mouth, despite swearing to himself he wouldn’t do this with Vígnir anymore. Things began innocently between them. After Vígnir’s father died, Jarl would check on him and his mother. That’s when he learned how close Gefn and Ǫssurr were to Vígnir’s family. Gradually, Jarl and Vígnir became increasingly close. The highborn first thought his strong feelings for Vígnir were due to the fact he, for the first time in his life, found someone who wanted nothing more from him than his company. </p><p>Their friendship grew closer, especially through the illness of Vígnir’s mother. After the visitors and well-wishers departed her funerary rites, Jarl remained. For the first time ever, Vígnir looked lost. <em> Unmoored. </em>That fateful visit that changed everything between them. What began as a simple embrace to console his grieving friend, turned into bashful, tentative lips finding one another. In little time, their kisses grew more urgent. Timid caresses grew into brazen, wanton touch. Their once shy fingers began boldly searching, exploring, and pleasuring one another. </p><p>. . .</p><p>Jarl is helpless against the brutal assault of Vígnir’s mouth, reeling from the delicious weight of his body. He hums with pleasure the moment Vígnir’s calloused fingers begin pawing at his fine tunic, gasping when his lover reaches beneath the garment to tease his rising nipples. Jarl grabs the dark curls at the nape of Vígnir’s neck, forces his mouth forward, and crams his tongue further inside Vígnir’s. </p><p>Vígnir’s hips pitch forward and briefly stutter when his clothed length finds Jarl’s, grinding against him in slow, measured ruts. A deep, satisfied groan rumbles in his chest from the delicious heat blooming up his thighs and surging into his cock. He bites at Jarl’s chin and flicks his tongue along the man’s jaw, purring with satisfaction when Jarl lifts his chin and offers his neck. Nothing thrills Vígnir more than watching the famously composed highborn devolve into a disheveled, lustful mess.</p><p>Jarl gasps when Vígnir reaches between his legs. He groans when the heel of Vígnir’s hand slowly, rapturously grinds against his length, straining and wet in his breeches. Jarl’s hips rise to meet Vígnir’s touch, desperate for the decadent friction. The highborn relishes the delicious fondling, but the moment Vígnir’s impatient fingers begin clawing at the closure of his breeches, Jarl remembers himself. He grasps Vígnir’s wrist and quickly scans the woods.</p><p>“Vígnir, <em> wait</em>.”</p><p>Vignir pants heavily in Jarl’s ear.</p><p>“You want me to stop?”</p><p>Jarl gazes up with a flushed face and lidded eyes.</p><p>“What if someone—?”<br/>
<br/>
The highborn’s response is cut short when his lover reaches inside his linen undergarments. Vígnir growls when he finds Jarl’s pulsing cock.</p><p>“Because <em> this…” </em>  Vígnir drags his thumb across the weeping tip, biting at the Jarl’s ear and purring into it. “Does not feel like a <em> ‘no’</em>.”</p><p>Jarl whimpers and takes another quick sweep of their surroundings. Beyond the dappled sunlight, the only witnesses to their assignation are the birds chirping beyond their rustling clothes and fervent breaths. Convinced they’re alone, Jarl impatiently tugs open his lover’s breeches and slams their mouths together when his hand finds Vígnir cock. Though Jarl’s lips are already burning from the pressure of Vígnir’s feral kisses, he shoves his tongue further down Vígnir’s throat. Any reservations he had become a distant memory when Vígnir shoves his finely embroidered tunic upward and ravenously descends upon his body, branding his abdomen with hot, hungry kisses.</p><p>Vígnir licks down the Jarl’s chest and nips around his ribs before kissing that taut, quivering abdomen. All the while, Vígnir roguishly grins back at the blue eyes peering down at him. Vígnir licks and teases around that trail of hair just beneath Jarl’s navel that leads to the lush nest of golden curls and trembling, pink cock. </p><p>Jarl chokes back a groan when Vígnir nuzzles between his legs, crying out at the wet, thick warmth licking up his shaft. He quietly chants profanities when Vígnir teases at his slit and flared tip before swallowing him down with a deep, hungry groan. </p><p>When Jarl’s thrusting hips begin to quicken, Vígnir slips Jarl’s twitching cock from his mouth. Jarl whimpers from the loss of that slick, wet heat when Vígnir feverishly slathers his fingers with saliva. The highborn raises his hips in a shameless, wanton offering, wordlessly begging for Vígnir's mouth and soon reeling when his lover breeches him with a spit-slick digit. Vígnir's hips keen forward when he enters Jarl’s deliciously taut heat. After several long, decadent strokes, and filling Jarl to the knuckle, Vígnir adds a second finger. He swallows down the highborn again, humming encouragement when Jarl hungrily rocks between his sucking mouth and fingers encroaching on the deep, secret spot that sends him over without fail.</p><p>“Vígnir, I...”</p><p>Vígnir keens at the sounds of his name and quickens his pace, moaning at Jarl’s salty tell on his tongue. He rides Jarl's cock through his gushing orgasm, refusing to withdraw until his lover shrinks back, tender and spent. </p><p>Afterwards, Vígnir quickly rises and clambers atop Jarl. He tents himself over his his lover and grasps his aching cock, for  Jarl is reluctant to pleasure him in the same way. While Vígnir rhythmically tugs himself, he studies every nuance of that exquisitely-chiseled face now soft with post-orgasmic bliss. Just as Vígnir begins shuddering from his quickening strokes, Jarl’s eyes go from soft with desire to determined with arousal. He grabs at Vígnir’s stroking wrist and pulls it away, rising from the ground and pushing Vígnir onto his back. </p><p>Vígnir blinks with confusion, reeling from the loss of his cresting orgasm. To his shock, Jarl descends his body and positions his mouth dangerously close to his twitching cock. Vígnir loudly moans from the soft caress of the blonde hair spilling against his hips and lower abdomen. </p><p>
  <em> “Jarl....” </em>
</p><p>Vígnir's hips pitch forward to meet Jarl’s hot breath on his cock, loudly groaning before plunging into the bliss of Jarl’s mouth. Vígnir raises his head and peers downward, gasping at the sight of Jarl sucking him. He claws at the ground beneath him in hopes of finding his bearings but is soon swept up by the waves of his erupting climax.</p><p>. . .</p><p>After having spent themselves, Vígnir lies back and stretches like a cat, tucking a hand behind his head. He gazes up at the swaying canopy of trees overhead, still thunderstruck that Jarl sucked him to completion. When Vígnir attempts to pull Jarl close for a kiss, the highborn nervously checks his surroundings. Jarl quickly redresses himself, still shuddering from the memory of Vígnir coming in his mouth while he fastens his breeches. Jarl takes a deep breath, his senses still replete with Vígnir’s scent and bitter tang. </p><p>Vígnir’s fingers reach for Jarl, trying to coax him back down to lie with him. </p><p>“No one’s here. You don’t have to....”</p><p>Vígnir‘s voice trails off when Jarl quickly turns away, harried and self-conscious before rising to his feet and nervously looking around. Though Vígnir does not understand the insurmountable pressure that comes with Jarl’s status, he knows if anyone learned of their physical intimacy, they would both be ruined. </p><p>Vígnir buttons his lips with his teeth when Jarl finally turns to face him. The highborn is now assuming the persona he projects to the village, shrugging into it like armor. Vígnir subtly deflates, quietly sighing with disappointment when Jarl closes himself off; those endless blue eyes, once soft with the desire of an ardent lover, are now distant with the formality a village leader.</p><p>Jarl clears his throat and considers his words for a moment. </p><p>“The earl spoke with me earlier. He knows you have your own land to tend and that it is imperative for strong men to remain and guard the village but....” The highborn notices the subtle change in Vígnir’s body language, his dark eyes shifting from casual to expectant. Jarl presses his lips together and raises a corner of his mouth. “Nonetheless, he hopes you will join the next raid.”</p><p>Vígnir’s lips part with disbelief. He tries to temper his elation; the news is almost too good to be true. He suspiciously squints, wondering if Jarl isn’t teasing him the way he occasionally does. Vígnir tucks himself back into his breeches and rises to his feet, struggling to subdue the excitement leaping in his chest.</p><p>“Do not toy with me, Jarl.”</p><p>The highborn’s demeanor softens and he reaches for Vígnir’s shoulder, his touch going from tentative to reassuring. The emotion gently tugs at Jarl’s face, his voice almost a whisper. </p><p>“I would not do that. Not about this.” Jarl’s touch lingers on Vígnir’s forearm. “But you must make preparations and continue training for we fight to honor the gods and our ancestors. Should we fall in battle, we will fight before the Óðinn in Valhǫll....” </p><p>Jarl’s voice trails off when Vígnir smirks, bemused. The highborn’s brow crinkles, perplexed with a twinge of self-consciousness. “What do you find so funny?”</p><p>Vígnir shakes his head, puffing with mirth. “All you highborn dream of fighting before Óðinn in the hall of the slain. With any luck, the valkyrjur will select me to join Freyja in Fólkvangr. The highborn, the seers, and völvur pray to Óðinn. The rest of us pray to Þórr, Freyja, and Freyr.”</p><p>Jarl feels the color rising in his face. No matter how much confidence he exudes, Vígnir (like Harði) always manages to point out his oversights or make light of his gravitas. </p><p>“I did not mean to—.’</p><p>“Do not worry yourself, Jarl. You cannot help being a highborn.” Vígnir playfully pats his lover’s shoulder. “Everyone in the village loves you in spite of it.” </p><p>Jarl scoffs, “You cannot possibly know that everyone loves me, Vígnir. That is impossible.”</p><p>Vígnir swallows down the lump in his throat, working to suppress the familiar ache in his chest. He averts his eyes and clears his throat before responding, his voice somewhat hoarse. </p><p>“It is not impossible.” Vígnir finds it difficult to keep Jarl’s gaze. “And they <em> do</em>.”</p><p>Vígnir grows silent, leaving the lingering implication unspoken. </p><p>
  <em> I do. </em>
</p><p>Jarl acutely feels the emotion tugging at his face, his heart leaping at Vígnir’s dark, searching eyes. His heart aches, knowing what they share is forbidden, <em> shameful. </em> When Jarl notices the ripple that crosses Vígnir’s lips, he clears his throat and nods back toward the village.</p><p>“I should get back.” He sucks in a big breath and musters a smile. “Do not forget. Make preparations. We will be setting sail before we know it.”</p><p>Vígnir nods, his warm grin touched with a hint of disappointment. “If the nornir weave it.”</p><p>Vígnir remains rooted in place, silently watching Jarl return to the village. Deep within his chest stirs the familiar longing he feels every time the highborn leaves him behind.</p><p> </p><p>: : :</p><p>Vígnir spends the rest of the morning fishing and visiting two warrior women, Assa and Vór, who are more sisters than friends. He shares his catch with them to celebrate the good news Jarl shared with him earlier. When he returns home later that afternoon, he hears noise coming from inside his dwelling. For a moment, Vígnir wonders if it could be Jarl, but he knows the highborn would never return after stealing away with him earlier—and he would certainly not rummage through his personal belongings. </p><p>Vígnir circles around his home to gather the ax he has around back for chopping wood. He silently enters and unsheaths his sakknifr. He skulks forward, following the noise, and happens upon a large man rifling through his belongings. Vígnir can tell by the man’s size and facial tattoos he is one of the berserkir who dwell in the distant woods beyond the village. </p><p>The berserkr tearing through and pocketing Vígnir’s valuables, suddenly stills and cocks his head to the side. The moment he turns around to look, Vígnir hurls his ax and lodges it squarely into the large man’s chest. The intruder suddenly stills and his eyes go wide with shock before falling with a loud clamor, sending objects scattering everywhere. </p><p>Vígnir quickly approaches the fallen berserkr to ensure he’s dead. The moment he reaches to dislodge the ax from the man’s chest, a large, powerful arm clamps around his neck and lifts him off his feet. Vígnir kicks and struggles to catch a breath against his assailant’s punishing hold. He quickly raises his dagger, stabbing back into the man’s face, neck, arms and behind his back to his kidneys until his attacker’s grip finally relents. Vígnir’s assailant staggers backward with his hand clamped to his neck, hoping to curtail the blood spurting from it until his knees give out and he falls backward, dead.</p><p>Vígnir coughs and struggles to catch his breath, eyes watering and chest burning. His depleted oxygen makes it difficult to find his feet. Just as he begins rising, two more berserkir descend upon him. Before he can reach his ax, he is yanked back by the powerful grip tangled in his hair. Vígnir can feel some of it pull away from his scalp as he’s dragged away. He wildly kicks and stabs at his two assailants until a third one appears and stomps the dagger from his hand. Though Vígnir manages to land numerous kicks and blows, without weapons, he is no match for the power and experience of the berserkir dwarfing him.</p><p>The last three berserkir overcome Vígnir and force him over over a table, taking turns beating and raping him bloody. No matter how bad the beating, Vígnir refuses to cower or surrender. The only sounds he makes are the muted groans and grunts he swallows down. He futilely continues to fight, even if it only results in more pain and the bear shirts’ sick pleasure. Though he knows the valkyrjur will not deem a sansorðinn worthy of fighting before Freyja in Fólkvangr or Óðinn in Valhǫll, he still hopes to injure his assailants before his certain death. </p><p>The berserkir beat Vígnir so savagely, the last stand he can manage is to bite and bear down hard on the bear shirt who tries forcing his cock in his mouth. Vígnir barely registers the man’s scream before they beat him again and wrap a rope around his neck. Vígnir futilely claws at the ligature, attempting to free himself as the men drag him around back. The bear shirts stab Vígnir with his own sakknifr, toss the length of the rope over the branch of a tree, and hoist him aloft his ancestors’ offering table, leaving him to die. The álvkvarnar that held Vígnir’s mead offering mere days ago, now hold his spilt blood.</p><p>Though Vígnir is quickly losing consciousness, his body struggles to live. His kicking legs softly sway his ravaged body until the last of his waning strength ebbs. As his body goes limp, he hears the faint fluttering of wings. A raven swoops down and alights upon the offering table below him. The large, inky bird intently studies him before emitting a loud kraw and taking flight. </p><p>Vígnir wishes it was a valkyrja’s raven. Though his end came by way of vápn dauðr, he knows he is unworthy of entering the hall of the slain. More likely, it is his mother’s fylgja, summoning him to join her and his father in the underworld, Hel. He recalls his final moments with her and can still see her weak smile, remembering her frail, cold hand that he held to his face.</p><p>“Honor the gods, but <em> especially </em> the álfar for the mound dwellers blessed me with you. When you are lost or hurt, <em> remember </em> them. Watch and listen for the raven, who will guide you as it has me. When you journey through the darkest wood, look to the wolf. But most of all, my precious boy, do not be sad for I will <em> always </em>be with you. I love you.”</p><p>Vígnir’s sight grows darker, his mind like a dying ember. As his consciousness slowly dissolves from red to black, he relinquishes his fight and absorbs into the manifesting light, surrendering to the pull of his next life.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><strong>Sayings, terms and translations:</strong><br/><strong>Álfr (plural: álfar):</strong> The álfar (elves) were powerful beings who lived in burial mounds. The mound dwellers were connected to mystery, magic, fertility, and healing, sometimes referred to as “hidden ones”. The Norse believed elves demanded respect, having terrible tempers if offended. Norse lore also suggests the álfar occasionally interbred with humans.</p><p><strong>Álvkvarnar:</strong> “elven mills”. Term given to void or “cup” markings carved into sacrificial stones at burial sites. People regularly poured drink offerings into the voids for their deceased ancestors, the elves, land spirits, or others who dwelled in the burial mounds.</p><p><strong>Berserkr (plural: berserkir):</strong> Norse term derived from “berr”, meaning “bear” or “bare” and “serkr”, meaning “shirt”, whose literal translation being “bare shirt” or “bear shirt”. The berserkir were savage warriors known for their battle frenzy, <em>berserkergang.</em> The berserkir were believed to fight “bare of shirt” or without protection of mail shirt. They were often solitary and unwelcome in larger society, due to their brutality and unpredictable nature.</p><p><strong>Fólkvangr:</strong> the afterlife field of the goddess, Freya, occupied by warriors slain in battle. Half who died in combat joined Freya and the other joined Odin in Valhalla.</p><p><strong>Freyja:</strong> Norse goddess, Freya, whose name translates to “Lady”. She is the twin of the god Freyr, and associated with beauty, fertility, love, sex, war, and seiðr. Freya rides a chariot pulled by two cats and is accompanied by her boar, Hildisvíni.</p><p><strong>Freyr:</strong> Norse god whose name translates to “Lord”. He is the goddess Freya’s twin. One of the most widely-revered gods, he is charged with peace, prosperity, bountiful harvest, sunshine, and virility.</p><p><strong>Fylgja (plural: fylgjur):</strong> Vikings considered the fylgja to be one of the parts of an individual’s “self”, usually perceived in the form of a familiar animal or spirit. The fylgja accompanies an individual and is tied to their fate. Fylgjur could also be the “spirits” or “totems” of a family group.</p><p><strong>Hel:</strong> The underworld, ruled by the goddess, Hel, whose face was half black, while the other half was pale white. The Norse believed everyone who dies enters the Hel, the realm beneath their feet. After entering Hel, the dead are sent to their ultimate underworld dwelling place, including places such as Valhalla, Fólkvangr, Náströnd, or Niflhel.</p><p><strong>Nornir (singular: norn):</strong> “the Norse goddesses of fate”.  Their names derive from the past, present, and future of the verb “to be”. Urðr (or the Old English “Wyrd”), was the “old lady”, charged with “that which was” or the past. Verðandi, “the lady” is charged with “that which is” (the ever-changing present). Skuldi, the youngest, is charged with “that which will be” (and all the possibilities of the future). </p><p><strong>Óðinn:</strong> Odin, the god of war, death, wisdom, knowledge, poetry, sorcery, and the runic alphabet. Highborn, seers, sorcerers, and warriors were often devotees of Odin, who granted hidden knowledge and helped warriors (like berserkir) to achieve battle frenzy. </p><p><strong>Þórr:</strong> Thor, the god who wields his hammer, Mjölnir. Thor is the god associated with storms, thunder, lightning, trees and groves. The common people were often devotees of Thor, who was charged with protecting humans and granting fertility.</p><p><strong>Sansorðinn:</strong> derogatory epithet describing the “passive” man in a homosexual encounter, or a man who has been “used like a woman”. Homosexuality was frowned upon, especially when a man assumed the passive role. </p><p><strong>Valkyrja (plural: Valkyrjur):</strong> valkyrie or “chooser of the slain”. The valkyries were norns who decided the fate of those who lived or died in battle, or by violent weapon death (vápn dauðr). They also had charge of selecting the battle slain to join the god Odin in Valhalla, or the goddess Freya in her field for slain warriors, Fólkvangr. Valkyries were sometimes accompanied by ravens.</p><p><strong>Valhǫll:</strong> Valhalla or the “hall of the slain”. </p><p><strong>Vápn dauðr:</strong> gory and glorious death in battle.</p><p><strong>Völva (plural: völvur):</strong> witch or sorceress, often referred to as a practitioner of seiðr. Many often traveled with a ritual distaff for blessings or curses. The Norse used distaffs and spindles for spinning wool, flax, or hemp. Spinning played a large part in seiðr magic. Some völvur had elaborate metal distaffs.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Álfablót</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ǫssurr, Jarl, and Harði make a tragic discovery.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <strong>Nordic Terms and Translations for this chapter appear in the chapter endnotes.</strong>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>: : :</p><p>Ǫssurr wanders through the woods, scanning the forest floor for suitable materials to create amulets and other talismans, like a hlutr or teinn. Only certain stones and sticks can contain or harness talismanic magic, or taufr. Ǫssurr practices seiðr in hopes of becoming as powerful as his mother, unbothered by people’s beliefs his practice of such magic arts make him argr. </p><p>Ǫssurr has been dogged by their glances and whispers his entire life, having no known father and an underdeveloped leg that would have prompted another parent to abandon him. As a small boy, his mother comforted him by insisting he was a blessing from the álfar because of her devotion to them. She claimed the mound dwellers told her he would grow very powerful, with influence reaching far beyond their village. It was those stories that drove him to become as learned as the Finnish sorcerers, whose legendary serpent stones attract people from far and wide.</p><p>Ǫssurr grasps his walking stick and carefully bends to reach for a stone. He turns it over in his hand and carefully studies it. As he rises, the distant caws of a raven grow louder and closer. To his surprise, the corvid streaking through the forest swoops down upon a nearby branch. Ǫssurr pockets the stone and approaches the clamoring bird. The moment he limps forward, it flies from the branch and alights upon the ground before him. It calls out again, hops a few steps, and turns back to Ǫssurr, practically imploring him to follow. </p><p>Puzzled, Ǫssurr steps forward and gazes into the raven’s eyes. To his shock, he sees Vígnir’s, unfocused and fading. Overwhelmed with dread, he tightens the grip on his walking stick and quickly limps to Vígnir’s home.</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p>Jarl and Harði rush through the village, hoping to assemble a group of men to deal with a band of rogue berserkir just spotted on the outskirts of the village. Harði barrels toward Vígnir’s home, only to slow at the sight of a bloody handprint at the threshold. The boar warrior raises a hand to silently alert Jarl. Harði grips his ax, silently skulks forward, and scans everywhere, minding blind spots before entering Vígnir’s ransacked home.</p><p>Harði mentally notes five sets of footprints when he enters. It isn’t long before he happens upon two dead berserkir, one with an ax in his chest and the other dead from stab wounds to the neck. Taking small comfort that Vígnir bettered their odds, he signals for Jarl to check the corpses while he continues checking the eerily silent dwelling. </p><p>When Jarl passes the threshold, he is overcome by a terrible, sinking feeling at the sight of Vígnir’s neatly-kept home in complete disarray. There is no sound within the familiar dwelling, save that of his rapidly beating heart. Every quiet second uninterrupted by Vígnir’s interminable cheek overwhelms Jarl with a foreboding sense of dread until Harði’s horrified whisper finally breaks the tense silence. </p><p>“Jarl. <em> Come.</em>”</p><p>Jarl quickly skulks forward to meet up with Harði. The highborn’s chest constricts at the sight of a vicious struggle, evidenced by strewn objects, drag marks, and blood drops. The men follow the trail that leads out back. When the men round Vígnir’s dwelling, there is no sign of the intruders, only eerie, nerve-wracking silence. Jarl cautiously calls for his friend. <em> Lover. </em></p><p>“Vígnir?”</p><p>A different but familiar voice shouts back, panicked. </p><p>“Back here! <b>Hurry!</b>”</p><p>The men exchange a worried glance and rush towards the sounds of Ǫssurr’s voice, only to slow at the sight on the offering table. There, Vígnir lies half-naked and beaten almost unrecognizable. His dagger is jutting from his abdomen and a rope is dangling from neck. Leaning over Vígnir is Ǫssurr who is cradling his head and furiously cutting away the ligature. Jarl and Harði absently approach, shaken to their core. </p><p>Harði groans in horror and squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing a hand down his mouth at Vígnir’s discarded breeches and undergarments, cut away and bloody in the seat. Jarl’s lips part with shock. He dumbly blinks and shakes his head until the normally quiet, unassuming Ǫssurr begins barking at them.</p><p>“Do not just stand there! Help me remove this knife!”</p><p>When Jarl rushes forward, he is stopped by Harði’s big, meaty hand. The boar warrior intones with solemnity.</p><p>“<em>Leave him. </em> Vígnir fought bravely but…” Harði nods toward the evidence of Vígnir’s rape, making a point not to look. “He’s ruined. A sansorðinn. He would not want to live. I would not.”</p><p>Torn, Jarl vacillates before the solemn, resigned warrior and the frantic, anxious healer. His heart sinks at Vígnir’s broken body, knowing there is only truth in Harði’s words. Being sansorðinn is the worst fate to befall a man. Vígnir would rather die than live with the shame of being raped, for he would never again be considered a man. Jarl’s throat stings with rising bile. Saving Vígnir means dooming him to a fate worse than death. Leaving Vígnir to die would be a mercy.</p><p>Ǫssurr’s shrieking at Harði finally snaps Jarl from his swirling thoughts.</p><p>“These berserkir have terrorized our villages for years! You claim to be Svínfylking?! How many berserkir have <em> you </em> claimed, Harði?! Vígnir killed <b>two</b>! And <em> you</em>, Jarl?! Standing there unwilling to help?! Does the blood of a highborn not bestow you with honor?!”</p><p>Jarl recoils as if been struck, the shame hot on his face. When Jarl steps forward to assist Ǫssurr, Harði tenses his jaw and works it from side to side at the healer’s smarting words. Though he has killed many fierce warriors in his numerous battles, he has never claimed a berserkr. He nods toward the blood drops and remaining sets of footprints exiting the burial mound. </p><p>“I’m off to track the bear shirts.”  </p><p>Harði shakes his head and points his ax to the highborn and the völva’s son, admonishing them.</p><p>“You will <em> both </em>regret this.”</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p>After an unsuccessful search for the rogue bear shirts and removing the two berserkir corpses, Jarl returns to Vígnir’s home in a daze. The day’s images flash before him—from his morning assignation with Vígnir, to the horror of finding him raped and near death on his own offering stone. Under any other circumstances, Jarl would have leapt into action, but the sight of Vígnir savaged left him stunned. <em> Paralyzed. </em> All he could do was stand there, rooted in place until Ǫssurr began barking orders.</p><p>Jarl vacantly assisted Ǫssurr while he struggled to reconcile the fact Vígnir was hovering at death’s door, when mere hours earlier, he was so vibrant and alive. To Jarl’s relief, the seeress, Gefn, arrived not long after, bidden by her clairvoyance or by some other unknown force. The völva immediately joined her son in tending to the broken man. In her gnarled hand was her ritual distaff. </p><p>As the highborn enters the dwelling, he can see the progress Vígnir’s friends, Assa and Vór made in cleaning evidence of the earlier horror that transpired. Jarl rummages through his pouch to retrieve Vígnir’s recovered items from the dead bear shirts and awkwardly offers them to the warrior women. The smaller of the two, Vór, grimaces and turns away, busying herself with more cleaning. Assa blinks back her misting eyes and accepts them, sadly smiling before solemnly returning to her work.</p><p>Jarl inhales a deep breath and holds it for a moment before making the difficult walk to the area where Vígnir sleeps—the area where they first laid together and have numerous times since. He first notices Vígnir’s fur-blanketed legs while the mother and son crouch over him. The highborn hesitantly approaches, unable to stifle a horrified moan when he finally gets a better look at his ravaged lover. </p><p>Gefn and Ǫssurr cleaned away all the blood but, in doing so, revealed the true extent of Vígnir’s injuries. His mouth is busted and eyes are swollen shut. Vígnir’s turgid lips and facial bruises are darkened with pooling blood and the rope burn around his neck has only grown redder and more inflamed. Copious bruises have bloomed all over his broken body, and now, to Jarl’s horror, he notices patches of Vígnir’s hair were ripped from his scalp. After several tense moments, Vígnir’s shallow breaths remind Jarl to breathe himself. </p><p>Jarl helplessly watches Gefn and Ǫssurr carefully maneuver Vígnir’s shivering body to check and change his blood-soaked bandages, operating in tandem and wordlessly communicating with one another. They skillfully tend to Vígnir’s wounds and carefully cover him to keep him warm. Afterwards, Gefn washes the blood from her hands in a small bowl and addresses Jarl without turning to face him. </p><p>“Ask your question, highborn.”</p><p>Jarl grits his teeth and haltingly croaks.</p><p>“How is he still alive? Is it because of your magic?”</p><p>The seeress finally turns to face Jarl and carefully considers him before rising. </p><p>“My magic is not this powerful. <em> No man </em> could have survived these wounds. The mound-dwellers must have come to Vígnir’s aid.” Gefn raises a gnarled finger and points toward the burial mounds out back, never once breaking Jarl’s gaze. Her eyes narrow and her voice grows deep with foreboding. “The remaining berserkir have offended the álfar. Urðr has woven her part of Vígnir’s fate, but Verðandi and Skuldi are still weaving. The morðvargar responsible for this evil will not welcome what the nornir weave for them.”  </p><p>Jarl grows wary with the völva’s admonition, his eyes drifting to the elaborately-carved amulet dangling from her neck. Before forming a reply, he glances at Ǫssurr, who is busily treating Vígnir’s less serious lacerations with a poultice, giving his mother and the highborn the illusion of privacy. Jarl takes a deep breath and sets his jaw, replying to Gefn with the authority his status affords him.</p><p>“There will be no lawlessness. The earl will gather the village elders. They will decide how we must deal with the berserkir. We will find the vargar and—.”</p><p>Gefn holds up her hand and shakes her head, sardonically chuckling. </p><p>“You are right about <em> one </em> thing, highborn. The vargar <em> will </em> be found and they <em> will </em> be punished. But not by you, the earl, or the elders—not even <em> your boar </em> or his herd of brethren.”</p><p>The völva’s portent strikes Jarl dumb. Before he can reply, Gefn leans forward and sniffs him. The woman’s wizened brow crinkles for a moment before her eyes flash with disbelief. Gefn quickly glances at Vígnir before returning her narrowed gaze to Jarl. She meticulously studies him, lips parting with the subtlest surprise. Jarl’s face goes hot. His heart hammers with the certainty the seeress pieced together the illicit nature of his relationship with Vígnir. The sound of Vígnir’s piteous moaning finally breaks the uncomfortable silence. </p><p>The crone turns back to tend to the broken man, addressing Jarl over a shoulder.</p><p>“Unless you intend to help, you can see yourself out.”</p><p> </p><p>: : :</p><p>After ensuring Vígnir is stabilized, Ǫssurr tends to the dying fire and returns with the food and drink Assa and Vór prepared for them. The mother and son largely eat in silence, listening for any changes in Vígnir’s breathing. Whenever the unconscious man groans or stirs, Ǫssurr forgets his meal to check on Vígnir and soothe his brow. </p><p>Though Ǫssurr regularly aids his mother in healing and tending to the sick, Gefn knows there is more behind her son’s constancy regarding Vígnir. She has watched her son’s adoration for his dark-eyed friend throughout the years, beginning when they were still young boys. Even as children, the curly-haired boy regularly extended Ǫssurr a helping hand or slowed his rapid gait, patiently waiting for his friend to catch up or ensuring he never fell too far behind. Ǫssurr especially looked forward to the summers when Vígnir invited him to swim, the one physical activity that wasn’t impeded by his feeble leg. </p><p>Ǫssurr spends most of their silent meal wondering if he should return back home to retrieve his distaff for spinning. Most nights, after the day’s chores are finished, he and his mother reach for their distaffs and spindles to spin wool and flax or engage in their seiðr practice. The hypnotic spinning helps the mind lengthen, stretch, and travel beyond the present to the past or the future, past the confines of their own hugr into the mind of another. </p><p>Desperate to help his friend, Ǫssurr is convinced if he can stretch his hugr to meet Vígnir’s, he might glean some hidden truth that could aid in his healing. Anything is better than waiting and worrying. His mind continually circles back to the shock of finding Vígnir on the offering table: hanged and stabbed as if <em> he </em> was the álfablót. </p><p>
  <em> So much blood. Everywhere. </em>
</p><p>Ǫssurr thinks back to what Jarl asked his mother, the same question that’s dogged him ever he discovered Vígnir, who, by some miracle, was still breathing.</p><p><em> How </em> <b> <em>is</em> </b> <em> he still alive? </em></p><p>Ǫssurr nervously chews the nail of his thumb and glances between Vígnir and his mother’s ritual distaff, certain if he had his own, he could unlock the key to Vígnir’s recovery. Ǫssur says more to himself than his mother.</p><p>“Perhaps I should fetch my spinning…” </p><p>His voice trails off at the sensation of his mother’s hand on his forearm. He turns to her and meets her sympathetic gaze, yielding his fingers to hers as she tenderly intertwines them. </p><p>“Now is not the time for spinning.”</p><p>Ǫssurr’s blinks with disbelief. He indignantly shakes his head, “We can’t just sit here!” He emphatically points to Vígnir and raises his voice, blinking back the moisture in his eyes. “We must <em> do </em> something! He could…” </p><p>
  <em> Die. </em>
</p><p>Ǫssurr shakes his head and banishes the thought from his mind, not wanting to hasten the nornir still spinning Vígnir’s fate, especially if they are weaving his death. </p><p>Gefn sadly watches the torment in her son’s eyes and softly places her free hand over their interconnected fingers, stroking them. She gently nods toward the unconscious man before them and returns her son’s gaze.</p><p>“Do you remember when you were boys?”</p><p>Choking back a whimper, Ǫssurr’s face twists with grief. The only reply he can muster is a nod. Gefn takes a quiet breath and holds it a minute before addressing her son again. </p><p>“When you were unable to keep up with Vígnir, did he ever hurry you along?”</p><p>Ǫssurr sniffs. “No.” He wipes beneath his nose and sadly looks to Vígnir, his voice tremulous. “He waited for me.”</p><p>His mother nods. “For how long?”</p><p>Ǫssurr’s face crumples. “For as long as I needed.”</p><p>Gefn strokes her son’s face and sympathetically nods. “And now you must wait for Vígnir.” She raises their intertwined fingers and presses a long kiss to the back of her son’s hand. Gefn patiently waits for the quiet resignation to settle in her son’s large, luminous eyes.</p><p>Later, after his mother drifts off to sleep, Ǫssurr coaxes her to lie down and rest. He covers her and tends to the crackling fire before limping back to Vígnir’s side. Ǫssurr carefully pulls back the furs and softly caresses Vígnir’s broken body while he checks his bandages and carefully returns the furs to tuck beneath the man’s battered chin. Ǫssurr tenderly stokes Vígnir’s dark curls and leans in close, his voice barely a whisper.</p><p>“I will be here. Take as long as you need.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><strong>Sayings, terms and translations:</strong><br/><strong>Álfablót:</strong> term derived from Norse <em>“álf”</em> (elf) and <em>“blót”</em> (blood sacrifice/offering). The <em>álfablót</em> was a blood sacrifice or offering to the elves or <em>“álfar”,</em> once thought to be the ancestors within a burial mound (or ancestral spirits). The Norse believed elves would offer healing to those with wounds but they must be offered a sacrifice. <em>Cult of the Dead - Arith Härger</em></p><p><strong>Argr:</strong> “unmanly”/homosexual.</p><p><strong>Hlutr:</strong> a statuette or figurine made of organic material that represents a deity.*</p><p><strong>Hugr:</strong> mind, consciousness. The Norse believed the hugr (conscious mind) was just one of the parts of the “self”. </p><p><strong>Norn (plural: nornir):</strong> “the Norse goddesses of fate”.  The most important nornir were Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuldi, respectively weaving the past, present, and future.</p><p><strong>Sansorðinn:</strong> derogatory epithet describing the “passive” man in a homosexual encounter, or a man who has been “used like a woman”. Homosexuality was frowned upon, especially when a man assumed the passive role. </p><p><strong>Seiðr:</strong> Norse ritual magic believed to shape or tell the future. Seiðr was mostly practiced by women. While male practitioners of seiðr existed, the Norse often looked down upon them because seiðr magic was considered “unmanly” <em>(argr).</em> Practitioners could assume control over other minds, and shape or influence someone’s will. This practice sometimes required a trance state.* <em>*The Magic of Seidr - Arith Härger</em></p><p><strong>Taufr:</strong> talismanic magic which consists of a charm (or <em>hlutur</em>) and an incantational formula. Taufr imbues an object with magical properties through incantations.*</p><p><strong>Teinn:</strong> wooden talisman made from a stick, or twig.*</p><p><strong>Valkyrja (plural: Valkyrjur):</strong> valkyrie or “chooser of the slain”. The valkyries were norns who decided the fate of those who lived or died in battle, or by violent weapon death or <em>vápn dauðr).</em> They also had charge of selecting the battle slain to join the god Odin in Valhalla, or the goddess Freya in her field for slain warriors, Fólkvangr. Valkyries were sometimes accompanied by ravens.</p><p><strong>Vargr (plural: vargar):</strong> wolf, killer, or evil-doer. The Old Norse also used <em>“morðvargr”,</em> meaning “killer wolf” or murderer. </p><p><strong>Völva (plural: völvur):</strong> witch or sorceress, often referred to as a practitioner of seiðr. Many often traveled with a ritual distaff for blessings or curses. The Norse used distaffs and spindles for spinning wool, flax, or hemp. Spinning played a large part in seiðr magic. Some völvur had elaborate metal distaffs.</p><p>*Definitions for talisman-related terms come from <em>Talismans in Norse Witchcraft - Arith Härger.</em></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Helvegr</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Vígnir awakens and struggles to deal with the aftermath of his rape.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Helvegr:</strong> “road to hel” or “way to hel.”</p><p> </p><p>  <em>This chapter includes descriptions of rape.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <strong>Nordic Terms and Translations for this chapter appear in the chapter endnotes.</strong></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>: : :</p><p>Sounds and scents are the first to reach Vígnir before he ever regains consciousness. Their tendrils gently coax him to the realm of living. Though his mind is not yet strong enough to form any thoughts or recollections, his body subtly rouses with the smell of cooked food. His ears latch onto the rising and falling of voices, soon followed by quick footfalls, shuffling, and muted whispers.</p><p>Though Vígnir is unable to speak or move, he still registers the pervasive agony that comes with each inhalation and exhalation. All he can manage are the shallowest of breaths, limited by his broken ribs and the screaming nerve endings throughout his wracked body. </p><p>A gentle trickle of warm liquid spills past his lips and into his mouth, quenching the fire in his throat, but the comfort is short-lived, for he chokes and sputters out the salty warmth. After a few moments, Vignir’s mouth and stomach awaken with craving. His lips open and close, searching for more of the warm liquid. He involuntarily moans with gratitude and has several more swallows before sinking back into exhausted oblivion.</p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p>The next time Vígnir stirs, it’s the pain that rouses him. Though still too weak to move, he cracks open his eyes to the smallest amount of dancing yellow light eking past his lids. His eyes quickly slip shut again, but, in the darkness, he registers a quiet, lilting tune that sounds like the lazy humming of a woman. Between the rise and fall of her barely audible melody is the subtlest crackling, like fire. </p><p>Vígnir’s weakened hugr tries latching on to the melody but it’s too distant, too subtle to compete with the rampant pain hammering away at him. His mind’s eye drifts to its last memory, the hazy recollection of the raven below his weakly swinging feet, loudly krawing before flying away.</p><p><em> Was it my </em> <em> fylgja </em> <em> or my mother’s</em><em>? </em></p><p>Somehow, his weakened mind realizes his agony is at not from howling winds or bitter cold so he cannot be in the icy realm of Niflheim. </p><p>
  <em> If I am not in the World of Mist, where am I? </em>
</p><p>Vígnir makes another attempt at opening his eyes. Through his unfocused gaze, he recognizes the faint profile of a woman, her silhouette is black as pitch against the flickering light. Were she to turn and reveal the entirety of her face, he could confirm if she is Hel, the goddess of the underworld, whose visage is half black while the other is pale and fleshy. Vígnir groggily scans his surroundings in search of her blood-stained wolf, Garmr, but there is no sign of the ferocious beast.</p><p>Vígnir’s eyelids grow heavy again. As they fall shut, the woman cast in darkness places her distaff between her legs and begins spinning. As Vígnir’s consciousness begins collapsing, he tries stretching his hugr to listen for the ravens of the valkyrjur or that of his mother, but hears nothing.</p><p><em> The </em> <em> norn </em> <em> is still spinning my fate. </em></p><p>Vígnir feebly attempts to address the norn, but can only muster a muted moan before slipping back into unconsciousness. </p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p>
  <em> Vígnir is completely off balance, bent over a table. He struggles to lift his head from the surface of it, but the grip tangled in his hair forces his face down so hard, Vígnir can feel the splinters lodging into his face. His arms are forced apart, stretched across the tabletop and his wrists are clamped down by the red-haired berserkr and the one with the broken teeth. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He tries to kick back and wrestle free from their grip, but he’s bent so far over he cannot regain his center of gravity. The bear shirt behind him keeps shoving him back down and kicking his legs apart. To add insult to injury, the berserkir erupt into cheers and lecherous cackling the instant his breeches are yanked past his ass. </em>
</p><p><em> The snaggle-toothed </em> <em> berserkr </em> <em> who keeps forcing his head down, lowers himself to meet Vignir’s gaze, his hard grey eyes glinting with smug satisfaction. The jeering bear shirt leans in so close, Vígnir can feel the man’s hot, fetid breaths puff against his face while he taunts him.  </em></p><p>
  <em> “Not only am I going to fuck your asshole bloody, but that smart mouth of yours is going to suck my c—.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vígnir hawks a huge wad of spit in his assailant’s face. The bear shirt recoils in shock and wipes it away before unleashing a vicious assault of blows against the side of Vignir’s head. But that isn’t the worst of it. The worst is the searing pain and abject humiliation when the berserkr behind him, the one with the tattooed face, forces his cock inside him. The shock is so fierce that Vígnir cannot breathe, the violation so abhorrent that his entire body seizes, revolting at the loathsome degradation.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Despite the futility of it, Vígnir fights, struggling to free himself. His assailant pulls back by a small measure before he begins fucking him relentlessly. Vígnir squeezes his eyes shut with shame, repulsed by the man’s sickening grunts and low, satisfied hiss when the blood begins trickling down his legs. </em>
</p><p><em> “</em><b><em>That’s</em> </b> <em> it, boy. Keep fighting. Your fighting makes it </em> <b> <em>so</em> </b> <em> much better.” </em></p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p>Vígnir gasps in horror and his body shoots upward, blinded by a flood of light. He tries raising a hand to cover his eyes, but he is so weak and his pain so pervasive, he helplessly whimpers and collapses. After a few moments, he circumspectly opens his eyes and his vision slowly adjusts to the light. He hazily peers around and, to his shock, he’s overcome with dawning horror that he is not dead in the underworld, but alive at home, sleeping beneath his furs. </p><p>His searching, incredulous gaze finally stops at the familiar raven black hair and the mossy green eyes he has known the entirety of his life. They’re so wide, expectant, and hopeful, Vígnir cannot bear to look into them. Instead, Vígnir’s eyes drift down to the spray of freckles and the encouraging smile that suddenly makes him sick to his stomach. </p><p>Ǫssurr quickly scoots closer and reaches for Vígnir’s hand, practically giddy with relief.</p><p>“Vígnir. We were so worried about you.”</p><p>Vígnir slams his eyes shut, jaw clenching in response to the despair washing over him. His throat constricts when the most humiliating aspects of his rape flash in his mind. He recalls that floating feeling… the disconnection... the way his hugr grew stronger as his body grew weaker, as if it was trying to separate itself from the unspeakable defilement… being dragged… the sounds of the bear shirts’ howling as they cut away his breeches… the excruciating thrust of the knife and his profound helplessness when the jeering men wrapped the rope around his neck and hoisted him aloft. </p><p>Vígnir thickly swallows down the despair crowding his throat and peers down at Ǫssurr’s fingers gingerly soothing his bruised and scabbed knuckles. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Vígnir finally meets Ǫssurr’s expectant gaze and replies with a voice hoarse from disuse, his tone as hollow as his broken spirit.</p><p>“You should have let me die.”</p><p>Ǫssurr’s elation morphs into horror. He wasn’t sure what to expect if Vígnir ever rose, but he thought his childhood friend might be relieved to see him, even by the smallest measure. Instead, Vígnir lies before him as he never has before. <em> Bereft. </em>He shakes his head, shocked by the despondency of Vígnir’s reply.</p><p>“I couldn’t leave you like that!”</p><p>Vígnir slams his eyes shut and shakes his head, blinking back the stinging in his eyes. His face is hot with shame, still unable to comprehend how he could prevail over so many powerful warriors, only to fall victim to the berserkir and be <em> used—</em>stabbed and hanged like a sacrificial animal. He sees another flash of the raven gazing up at him below his dangling feet. </p><p>
  <em> “Watch and listen for the raven… When you journey through the darkest wood, look to the wolf.” </em>
</p><p>Vígnir turns to Ǫssurr and inhales an agonizing breath, his broken ribs screaming with pain. He makes no attempt to hide the despondency in his voice. </p><p>“<em>Why </em> did you cut me down?”</p><p>Aghast, Ǫssurr shakes his head, troubled by the sudden need to defend his actions. Vígnir sounds almost accusatory.   </p><p>“I didn’t! <em> I swear it! </em> When I found you—y-you were on your offering stone, I….”</p><p>When Vígnir slams his eyes shut and turns away his twisting face, Ǫssurr’s explanation dies on his lips. Vígnir tenses his jaw muscles and swallows down his threatening whimper, wishing the norns had woven his death. </p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p>Later that night, Ǫssurr sits alone outside and looks to offering stone where he found Vígnir ravaged and near death. He wipes away the tears welling in his eyes, recalling Vígnir’s words that are still as painful as they were when Ǫssurr first heard them. </p><p>
  <em> “You should have let me die.” </em>
</p><p>The entirety of their lives, Vígnir was unflappable. No matter how difficult the circumstance, or insurmountable the problem, he faced it head on and shouldered it without complaint. Ǫssurr foolishly assumed Vígnir would stoically carry on as he always had, but the look in his eyes was unbearable to behold. Vígnir’s belief in himself was shattered, his impish spark extinguished.</p><p>Ǫssurr approaches the offering stone in a daze and traces the dried blood from Vígnir’s stab wounds. In the evening, they appear almost black. Though Ǫssurr’s despair is not as acute as it was that horrific day, it feels more pervasive, limitless. How can he possibly help when Vígnir does not want it? </p><p>
  <em> He hates me for helping him. </em>
</p><p>Ǫssurr closes his eyes, surrendering to the grief he has been stifling through sleepless nights and exhaustion. The tears Ǫssurr choked back for days freely fall, spilling forth like a deluge. Vígnir has been a fixture in Ǫssurr’s life from the days they were small boys. His dark eyes and bright smile enchanted Ǫssurr even then, making his heart leap. </p><p>Eventually, Ǫssurr’s grief exhausts him. He closes his eyes and stretches his hugr outward, silently asking Vígnir’s parents for guidance, especially Vígnir’s mother, who would softly run her fingers through his hair, exclaiming how it rivaled the feathers of a raven. Ǫssurr wishes she was still alive, for she was always generous with her time and affection, always offering a smile, a hug, or word of encouragement. Ǫssurr waits for what feels like an age, but everything is eerily silent and still, even the night creatures. </p><p>Ǫssurr exhales a long, disappointed sigh and heads back to Vígnir’s home. Before entering, he takes a deep breath to muster his courage. A soft, gentle breeze softly flutters his hair. To his surprise and despite the late hour, he hears the quiet warbling of a raven just past the leaves rustling overhead. </p><p> </p><p>: : :</p><p>Despite Vígnir’s best efforts to starve himself, the things that almost killed him are the very things that force him to live. Were it not for his broken ribs and stab wound impeding his ability to rise, Vígnir could end his torment by killing himself. However, it seems his broken hamr—his <em> body </em> drives him to live despite the horrors it endured.  </p><p>Vígnir refuses to eat after regaining consciousness, but his body still processes the food and drink in his belly. Despite his weakness, Vígnir’s vanity will not allow him to soil himself. He is determined to hoist himself from bed and walk to the cesspit while Ǫssurr is out searching for herbs. Vígnir’s body revolts against the seemingly monumental effort. Undeterred, Vígnir continues to try, groaning in pain and cursing his helplessness until a sudden voice startles him.</p><p>“Vígnir! What are you <em> doing?!</em>”</p><p>Ǫssurr almost drops his herbs and clean bandages at the sight of his injured friend halfway out of bed and the newly-blooming crimson on his bandages. He quickly hobbles over to get Vígnir back into bed only for the humiliated man to growl at him. </p><p>“I must get to the cesspool to <em> shit</em>, Ǫssurr! Are you going to do <em> that </em>for me, too?!”</p><p>Ǫssur’s mouth absently opens and closes. He is still smarting from Vígnir’s reaction when he first regained consciousness.</p><p>
  <em> “You should have let me die.” </em>
</p><p>Though Ǫssur knows Vígnir is lashing out from pain and humiliation, he is bone tired from days with little to no sleep. It has been a constant, thankless struggle to keep Vígnir alive, and now he feels berated for his efforts. Beside himself with exhaustion, Ǫssurr lashes out in return.</p><p>“<em>No, </em> Vígnir.” He angrily points to a slop bucket a little way off. “I am going to help <em> lift </em> you so you can <em> shit </em> <b> <em> in that!</em></b><em>”  </em>Ǫssurr angrily huffs and slams down the herbs and bandages by Vígnir’s bed. <em> “Unless you’d rather </em> <b> <em>shit yourself</em> </b> <em> and change your </em> <b> <em>own </em> </b> <em> bandages!” </em></p><p>Vígnir is dumbstruck. It takes him a moment to regain his bearings and rekindle his anger. Determined to lift himself without assistance, he makes another futile attempt before crumbling beneath the pervasive pain—even popping a few stitches for his wasted efforts.</p><p>Overcome with self-loathing and rage over his helplessness, Vígnir peers up at the ceiling and blinks back the frustration welling in his eyes, humiliated that he cannot do the simplest things unaided. <em> He </em>has always been the strong one who helps Ǫssurr, not the other way around. He swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth and takes a deep breath. After holding it for a long moment, Vígnir exhales out a long, frustrated sigh from his nose in an attempt to quell his anger and apologize.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Ǫssurr.” He grits his teeth and evasively peers into those pale green eyes, now dark with anger. “I need your help.” He barely recognizes the sound of his own voice. </p><p>
  <em> “Please.” </em>
</p><p>Ǫssurr softens with Vígnir’s blatant chagrin. He quickly retrieves the slop bucket and surreptitiously wipes the pooling moisture in his eyes while Vígnir shakily removes linen underwear, groaning with discomfort. The völva’s son crouches down behind his friend and slips his hands beneath his battered arms. He hoists Vígnir, taking special pains to mind his broken ribs. </p><p>It takes every bit of Vignir’s physical and mental strength to maneuver himself atop the slop bucket whimpering in agony as he shits—all within earshot of Ǫssurr, who is at least merciful enough not to remark on it. To add insult to injury, Vígnir has to endure the humiliation of Ǫssurr cleaning him for he is still incapable of doing it himself. </p><p>That is the indignity that finally compels Vígnir to recover the necessary strength to regain some measure of autonomy. Vígnir faces the harsh reality he can no longer refuse to eat. </p><p> </p><p>: : :</p><p>After a few days, the völva returns home for the village is growing impatient for her counsel and special blessings. Gefn returns whenever she is free but largely leaves Vígnir’s care to Ǫssurr, who feeds, bathes, and cares for his friend without hesitation or complaint. The völva’s son uses special herbs for teas, tinctures, and poultices to aid Vígnir’s healing and to reduce his pain. </p><p>Ǫssurr packs Vígnir’s wounds and changes his bandages—especially those tender, humiliating ones on his back and <em> lower, </em>the ones Vígnir hasn’t the physical capability to reach, much less the mental strength to think about… for when he does, he’s overwhelmed by the memories of his rape and his helplessness… his arms stretched outward and head being beaten… the cruel taunts and the sickening sounds of the men viciously slamming against him.</p><p>Despite Vígnir’s reticence and refusal to ask for anything, Ǫssurr always seems to sense exactly what Vígnir needs and when, be it the gentle distraction of his friends, Assa and Vór, privacy, food, or rest. Vígnir eventually gains enough strength to raise himself, but the pain is still difficult to manage when he sits and his ribs are still healing. </p><p>One afternoon, Vígnir’s pain rouses him from sleep. When he opens his eyes, he notices a bowl with the analgesic poultice Ǫssurr applies to his chest and beneath his armpits when his pain becomes too much. Vígnir dips his fingers into it and meticulously studies the bitter-smelling blend of herbs beneath his fingers. Just as Vígnir raises it to his tongue, he’s startled by Ǫssurr’s shrieking.  </p><p><b>“No!”</b> Ǫssurr quickly limps forward, moves the bowl out of reach, and grabs a cloth. “This is only for your body!” Ǫssurr furiously wipes away the excess from Vígnir’s fingers, his eyes wide with worry. “You must <em>never </em>eat this.”</p><p>Vígnir compliantly nods and watches while Ǫssurr carefully collects the poultice with a cloth and gingerly slathers it on him. After Ǫssurr leaves him to rest, Vígnir stares down at the thick analgesic on his upper abdomen, waiting for its assuaging effect.</p><p> </p><p>: : :</p><p>Days pass before Vígnir can stand on his own and take his first few excruciating steps. Every incremental movement forward is agony, from his broken ribs to the raw, private stretch of skin where he was violated. At first, Ǫssurr tries encouraging Vígnir for his accomplishment, suggesting he will soon be strong enough to walk to the mounds to make offerings, but there is no cause for celebration for not long ago, Vígnir could easily outrun most of the villagers<em>. </em> </p><p>Though Assa and Vór clean, discard, or replace every reminder of what happened in his home, Vígnir cannot help but remember, cannot help but wish it had never happened<em>. </em>Vígnir’s eyes drift to the new table the girls built for him and he swallows down the memory of the taunting berserkr.</p><p><em> “</em><b><em>That’s</em> </b> <em> it, boy. Keep fighting. Your fighting makes it </em> <b> <em>so</em> </b> <em> much better.” </em></p><p>Vígnir collapses into his bed, overcome with exhaustion after making a short circuit around the back half of his home with Ǫssurr’s assistance. Vígnir tries masking his pain but his efforts are transparent. After arranging Vígnir in his bed, Ǫssurr retrieves the analgesic poultice to treat Vígnir’s pain and sets off for clean bandages. Not long after, Vígnir hears a knock and a familiar voice at the threshold of his home. </p><p>
  <em> Jarl.  </em>
</p><p>Vígnir’s stomach drops. Any other time, his heart would leap. The last thing he wants is for Jarl to see him broken. <em> Helpless. </em> Just when Vígnir was resigning himself to his fate, he learns his torment is bottomless. </p><p>Dread churns in Vígnir’s belly at the sound of Jarl’s gait. While he hears the indecipherable exchange between Ǫssurr and Jarl, he nervously cards his fingers through his dark brown curls and pulls out more loose clumps. To add insult to injury, Vígnir’s full head of hair has grown noticeably thinner since his attack. Vígnir holds his breath as Jarl quietly approaches his sleeping quarters and blinks back the moisture welling in his eyes, uncertain if he should be grateful for or mortified by Jarl’s visit. </p><p> </p><p>. . .</p><p>Jarl tries to mentally prepare himself before facing Vígnir. When Gefn intercepted him at Vígnir’s door a few days ago, he was almost relieved. Jarl had no idea what to say or how to begin to comfort Vígnir, so he rationalized his departure by convincing himself he was allowing Vígnir much-needed rest. He now regrets how easily he allowed Gefn to turn him away for he now has the odious task of informing Vígnir that, while the nobility is grateful he killed two berserkir, they learned of his rape and feel him unfit to join the raid. </p><p>Jarl nervously enters Vígnir’s sleeping quarters, heart sinking at Vígnir’s stifled groan and pained grimace when he struggles to rise. Jarl quickly approaches to help, only for Vígnir to raise a hand and growl between clenched teeth.</p><p>
  <em> “Don’t.” </em>
</p><p>Jarl relents with a stiff nod, mortified that Vígnir must lean to one side for he cannot even sit upright. Jarl suddenly remembers Vígnir discarded breeches and undergarments, cut away and bloody. Jarl could not imagine the horrors Vígnir endured that fateful day, but this woeful aftermath may be worse. The roguish fire in Vígnir’s eyes has been extinguished. In its place is mortification, <em> shame. </em></p><p>It is difficult to see Vígnir so weak, so <em> helpless. </em> The strong and brash young man, once so easy and confident in his body, is now weak, vulnerable, and disgraced. Vígnir’s voice finally shakes Jarl from his swirling thoughts.</p><p>“That bad, then? I look even worse than I feared.”</p><p>Jarl looks away when he feels his face contort with sorrow. Were it just the two of them, he could hold Vígnir, do<em> something </em> <em> — </em> but they are <em> not </em>alone. Ǫssurr is nearby, possibly listening to every word of their conversation. Jarl cannot help but think back to the last time he and Vígnir were alone together in the woods. He still sees and feels the delicious weight of Vígnir’s body. How could the norns weave such a cruel fate, allowing the berserkir to beat and rape Vígnir the very same day? He startles at the sound of Vígnir’s voice.</p><p>“Why did you come, Jarl?” </p><p>Vígnir slowly blinks and pointedly meets Jarl’s hesitant gaze. </p><p>“Do not say it is to wish me well, or offer a speedy recovery. We both know there is no recovering from what I am now.” Vígnir cannot even say the word. <em> Sansorðinn. </em> “No matter how many berserkir I kill.”</p><p>When Jarl grimaces and averts his eyes, Vígnir cannot help but notice how he can barely stand to look at him. When Jarl <em> does </em>meet his eyes, all Vígnir sees is horror. The barely-hidden desire that once lurked just below the surface of those sky-blue eyes is now something more akin to pity and horror. </p><p>Jarl clears his throat and hoarsely replies, “The nobility commends your bravery. They recognize you killed two of the rogue berserkir…”</p><p>Vígnir spares Jarl from having to finish, dispassionately intoning. “But I am still not fit to raid with the men.”</p><p>Vígnir watches the pained ripple of emotion cross Jarl’s face before the highborn solemnly shakes his head. Jarl inhales a ragged breath and rubs a hand down his face. To Vígnir’s surprise, he can see moisture glimmering in the man’s eyes. </p><p>Jarl’s reply is tremulous. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Vígnir lowers his eyes to Jarl’s feet, swallowing the bitterness in his mouth. “As am I.” Vígnir cannot help but notice the color rising in Jarl’s neck and ears. After a brief moment, meets Jarl’s gaze. “If there is nothing further, I’m tired.”<br/>
<br/>
Jarl blinks, “Of course. You should rest.” </p><p>Just before Jarl turns to leave, the sound of his name stops him. The highborn takes a breath to gather himself before turning back. He gazes into those impossibly dark eyes, once afire with determination, now beaten, <em> resigned. </em> </p><p>Vígnir works his jaw for an excruciating moment before reluctantly meeting Jarl’s gaze. “Do not return here. A man of your position should not be associated with...”  His eyes slowly drift to the fire and he swallows, the shame twisting in his gut. “One such as myself.”</p><p>Jarl blinks back the stinging in his eyes while he processes the ugly realization he hadn’t once considered until now. He dumbly opens and closes his mouth, searching in vain for a suitable retort, but there is only truth in Vígnir’s words. Jarl can no longer return to this place that was once his respite, where they once shared their bodies, their secrets, and fears. He can no longer associate with the man who means more to him than…. </p><p>“<em>Goodbye, </em> Jarl.”</p><p>Jarl looks back at the sound of his name, but Vígnir has turned his back to him. No longer having to endure the duress of Vígnir’s gaze, Jarl’s face freely twists at how the berserkir vandalized Vígnir’s beautiful body with numerous cuts and lingering bruises. He raises a hand to his mouth, struggling to suppress the horror rising in his throat. Jarl wipes down his face and collects himself to face not only Ǫssurr, but an uncertain future without Vígnir.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><strong>Sayings, terms and translations:</strong><br/><strong>Berserkr (plural: berserkir):</strong> Norse term derived from <em>“berr”,</em> meaning “bear” or “bare” and “serkr”, meaning “shirt”, whose literal translation being “bare shirt” or “bear shirt”. The berserkir were savage warriors known for their battle frenzy, <em>berserkergang.</em> The berserkir were believed to fight “bare of shirt” or without protection of mail shirt. They were often solitary and unwelcome in larger society, due to their brutality and unpredictable nature.</p><p><strong>Fylgja (plural: fylgjur):</strong> Vikings considered the fylgja to be one of the parts of an individual’s “self”, usually perceived in the form of a familiar animal or spirit. The fylgja accompanies an individual and is tied to their fate. Fylgjur could also be the “spirits” or “totems” of a family group.</p><p><strong>Hamr:</strong> literal translation: “shape” or “skin.” “The hamr is one’s form or appearance, that which others perceive through sensory observation. Unlike in our modern worldview, however, that which is perceived by the senses is not absolutely and unalterably static and fixed… Hamr is the most crucial word in the Old Norse lexicon of shapeshifting. The Old Norse phrase that denotes the process of shapeshifting is <em>skipta hömum,</em> (or ‘changing hamr’), and the quality of being able to perform this feat is called <em>hamramr,</em> ‘of strong hamr.’”<em>—Daniel McCoy, The Viking Spirit, An Introduction to Norse Mythology and Religion</em></p><p><strong>Hel:</strong> The underworld, ruled by the goddess, Hel, whose face was half black, while the other half was pale white. The Norse believed everyone who dies enters the Hel, the realm beneath their feet. After entering Hel, the dead are sent to their ultimate underworld dwelling place, including places such as Valhalla, Fólkvangr, Náströnd, or Niflhel. Garmr, the blood-soaked dog or wolf, is Hel’s companion and guardian of Hel.</p><p><strong>Helvegr:</strong> “road to hel” or “way to hel.”—<em>Simek, Rudolf. 1993. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. Translated by Angela Hall. p. 139.</em></p><p><strong>Hugr:</strong> mind, consciousness. The Norse believed the hugr (conscious mind) was just one of the parts of the “self”.</p><p><strong>Niflheim or Niflheimr:</strong> "World of Mist",  literally <em>"Home of Mist"</em>. Niflheim is a location which sometimes overlaps with the notions of Niflhel and Hel, the underworld.</p><p><strong>Nornir (singular: norn):</strong> “the Norse goddesses of fate”. Their names derive from the past, present, and future of the verb “to be”. Urðr (or the Old English “Wyrd”), was the “old lady”, charged with “that which was” or the past. Verðandi, “the lady” is charged with “that which is” (the ever-changing present). Skuldi, the youngest, is charged with “that which will be” (and all the possibilities of the future).</p><p><strong>Sansorðinn:</strong> derogatory epithet describing the “passive” man in a homosexual encounter, or a man who has been “used like a woman”. Homosexuality was frowned upon, especially when a man assumed the passive role.</p><p><strong>Valkyrja (plural: Valkyrjur):</strong> valkyrie or “chooser of the slain”. The valkyries were norns who decided the fate of those who lived or died in battle, or by violent weapon death or <em>vápn dauðr).</em> They also had charge of selecting the battle slain to join the god Odin in Valhalla, or the goddess Freya in her field for slain warriors, Fólkvangr. Valkyries were sometimes accompanied by ravens.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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